


Mister Duck?  He's Dead

by orphan_account



Category: The Beach - Alex Garland
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Inspired by Art, POV First Person, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 23:29:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Six variations of a poem about Daffy.





	1. Duck, with Chain

**Author's Note:**

> In a sophomore-level poetry class I took more years ago than I'd like to think about, we were assigned to go watch a sculptor work who made his sculptures by melting plastic buckets, and then to write a poem about it. One of the sculptures was a chained-up, rather psychotic looking hybrid of Daffy Duck and Howard the Duck. Since I was obsessed with _The Beach_ at the time, I decided to write my poem about Daffy. I ended up with _several_ poems about Daffy-- some focused more on the sculpture, and some focused more on the character-- and couldn't decide which I liked best... so here they are all. They're primarily based on the book, but they work for the movie too.

Chained by Paradise, Mister Duck--  
you writhe and watch me with sad spiral eyes that seem to say:  
"But just believe in me, son-- only you can  
set me free."

You want out, Mister Duck--  
one arm reaching for freedom (or death, if they are not the same)--  
But by now nothing's close to you  
except for me.

Aren't you tired, Mister Duck--  
flat feet, spindly body, heavy head hanging low--  
But what moves me most is your reaching arm, a branch,  
a dying tree.

Don't give up, Mister Duck--  
Paradise will burn for you, your wild-eyed stare--  
But even though you reach for death--  
you still touch me.


	2. Duckman

If Bosch and Dali had a child, it would be you--  
_Duckman._  
Sad spiral eyes, ungainly beak  
And snake-head chain weighing you down.  
Some buckets and paint make  
Spindly body, flat feet,  
But no wings to fly,  
Just a chain to keep you here  
And crazy eyes that beg the impossible--  
Duckman, you want to be loved.


	3. Mr. Duck

If Fortuna and Virtu ever had a child,  
Mr. Duck-- it would be you.  
Your sad spiral eyes, ungainly head,  
And spindly body beg for paradise  
You loved, you lost, you're trapped  
No wings, only a chain-snake  
Beguiling you to paradise, and then--  
You'll die for it, but for now you look at me  
And say-- "Son, it's yours-- because only you can destroy it."  
But your crazy eyes beg the impossible-- "Kill it gently, after I'm gone."


	4. Mister Duck

Virtu and Fortune had a child and  
Mister Duck, that child was you.  
Sad spiral eyes and spindly body  
Bearing head in love with youth.

You loved, you lost, and now you're trapped  
By wide flat feet and chains of snakes  
That tempted you to Paradise  
Then left you with your mistakes.

Mister Duck, you look at me with  
Crazy eyes that seem to cry  
"Son, look beyond the others-- You and me,  
We're where the future lies."

But Mister Duck, it's too late now  
You've gone too far, you've lost too much  
And still you reach with wasted arm--  
Asking just to feel my touch.


	5. Mister Duck

Chained by Paradise, you write and watch me  
With sad spiral eyes that seem to say,  
"Believe in me son-- only you can set me free."  
You want out--  
Reaching for freedom (or death)  
\--but nothing's in reach except me.

Flat feet, spindly body, and heavy head  
But what moves me most  
Is that desperate hand, a grasping shadow,  
Reaching for love--  
Reaching for me.


	6. Duck, with Chain

Mister Duck? He's dead--  
Yet he stands in chains, bound tight,  
Spiral eyes now without sight,  
And reaches out to me.

Mister Duck, he speaks--  
Tells me what I long to hear,  
Whispers to me when I'm near:  
"Son, come and set me free."

Mister Duck, he's tired--  
Reaching arms like branches dead,  
Spindly body, heavy head,  
Full of dreams of the sea.

Mister Duck, he's dead.  
Paradise will burn for him,  
At my word-- nay, at my whim,  
For he reached out to _me_.

 


End file.
